TO THE FAR WEST.
It was ten o'clock on Monday, the 11th of August, when we arrived at
the station of the Baltimore and Ohio Railroad, which was to take us to
Chicago. We had great difficulty in threading our way amongst several
hundreds of negresses bent on a religious excursion. At first the train
followed the winding course of the Potomac, through a fertile country;
but presently we were going through a mountain gorge, wooded and
precipitous, through which the river rushed and foamed. We crossed an
iron bridge over the broad river to Harper's Ferry, the culminating point
of a very beautiful mountain scene. As the train drew up at the wooden
station, the absolute stillness, broken only by the sound of rushing
waters, enhanced the spell of the mountains, which seemed to close us in
on all sides.
At Cumberland the country then changed to long, undulating hills; and
soon after a halt was called, and dinner served at the station. When
further on a second engine was attached, a pleasurable excitement
prevailed throughout the cars, and there was an underhand scuffle for the
right-hand side of the carriage. We were approaching the glorious range
of the Alleghenies, and preparing to cross the mountains. It was a wild
scene of the greatest beauty, the glorious solitude of the vast range,
broken only by the hideous shriek of the engine, as we climbed the side
suspended over a fathomless precipice. As we rose the view extended over
many mountain-tops, a panoramic scene of great extent and beauty. We
were going up a gradient of sixteen feet to the mile for eighteen miles,
with curves so sharp that the middle of the train was doubled inwards or
outwards, until we, in the last car, were almost parallel to the engine.
We were hanging half way out of the windows, and in full enjoyment of the
glorious view, when a sharp angle cruelly shut it all out, and the summit
was reached. I was glad that the scene changed so completely at once. So
often the full effect of some specially beautiful masterpiece is spoilt
by a gradual preparation, Nature working herself up as she goes along;
but here the transition is sudden, and the open, park-like spaces present
a gentle contrast--golden as they were then in the setting sun.
It seemed as if the beautiful part of our journey was over, when we
found ourselves on a yet steeper ascent; and if the other was lovely,
far more so was this one. Grand and gloomy the mountains stood above
us. A line of silver and a gentle rushing sound alone told us of the
presence of the Cheat River, coursing many hundred feet below, through a
chasm in the rocks. The pine forests around us whispered softly. Some of
their blackened trunks, hideous and deformed, waving their ghostlike and
withered arms close to the line, tell of the fury of the storms confined
in these narrow mountain gorges.
In the growing dusk we rushed with maddening and increasing speed down
into the valley, the glowing furnaces of a manufacturing village sending
out a ruddy glow into the dark night.
We passed the night in the Pullman sleeping-car, and I slept soundly.
Indeed, there is no reason why you should not do so in these "sleepers."
The upper berth lets down from the roof; a sliding partition and an
ample curtain forms a "section;" and there are mattresses, pillows, and
blankets to form a very comfortable bed, whilst the black porter produces
clean sheets and pillow-cases. Dressing and undressing in a sitting
posture requires dexterity, which comes with practice. And nothing
is more amusing than looking down the length of the car--to see the
mysterious heaving and bulging of the curtains, and the protruding arms
and legs. I think the general scramble for the "Ladies' toilette" in the
chill of the early morning is perhaps the worst part of a night in the
cars. How I got to hate the large fringes and crimped bandeaux of the
American ladies, which required such an undue amount of care and time in
curling!
At Chicago Junction we were hurried out of the "Pullman" into one of the
ordinary cars. This meant a carriage, dirty as a London Metropolitan
third-class, crowded with thirty people of all degrees. We had been
dreading our long journey to the far West, of which this was the first
stage; and our fears were being realized. Terribly hot and wearisome was
the long day, stopping at every small station. Very dusty, tired, and hot
were we, as we skirted the blue shores of Lake Michigan at 7 p.m., and
neared the end of our journey, passing for the last four miles through
Hyde Park, a suburb of Chicago. We thought ourselves in the greatest
luxury when we arrived at length at the Grand Pacific Hotel.
_Chicago, August 13th._--"Schicago," as the Americans softly pronounce
it, is the great commercial capital of the West, receiving, as it
does, the chief bulk of the enormous grain-producing country lying
to the westward. Therefore do its streets present no fine buildings,
except those of mercantile banks, business offices, and warehouses; and
therefore are its streets blocked with drays and waggons, and present
generally a bustling activity.
The streets are laid with blocks of stone, and perhaps it is the best
kind of pavement after all, regarding health more than comfort. We found
the wood pavement, not being properly kept, was far from pleasant in
hot weather. The same might be said of the broad asphalte avenues of
Washington, which under a blazing sun perfumed the air with a pungent
smell of tar.
After the great fire of October, 1871, Chicago rose like a phoenix
from its ashes. A curious calculation resulted in the discovery that in
the period of six months one building, from four to six storeys high,
was completed each hour in a day of eight working hours. It certainly
presents an unprecedentedly rapid growth, and the population entirely
keeps pace with it.
Chicago is just settling down after the intense excitement of the
Convention, held here only the other day, when Blaine was chosen as
the Republican candidate, and Cleveland by the Democrats. Every four
years the whole country is convulsed with these Presidential elections,
a tenure of office far too short to allow of any settled policy to
attain to maturity. The country is blazoned with portraits of the rival
candidates; debased often to the use of advertisements, as when Mr.
Blaine (who is dyspeptic) is seen standing by a bottle as big as himself
of "Tippecande." The newspapers resound throughout the country with their
mutual vituperations. "Blaine is corrupt!" cry the Democrats; "Cleveland
is immoral!" retort the Republicans.
Party warfare descends even to the shape of the hat. In New York we had
several times noticed the predominating number of tall white hats. It
was explained they were Blaine's followers; whereas Cleveland's wore a
wider brim in a brown felt. In America, where _every_ adult male, be he
householder or not, has a vote, politics have a wider range, and are
discussed eagerly amongst all classes. We got at last to have quite a
"national" interest, and should like to have been in America during the
final struggle coming in November.
We went to see the Central Grain Elevator at a large warehouse, which
raises, weighs, and stores several thousand bushels of grain daily. The
working of the machinery is somewhat complicated, but one of the vats,
into which four wooden troughs converge and pour their contents, holds
seventy feet of grain, which is afterwards shot down by machinery into
railway waggons waiting in a siding below.
It was five miles to the Stockyards, which really constitute the great
sight of Chicago. The cable cars, running so swiftly and silently as if
by magic, by means of invisible underground machinery, down State Street,
conveyed us thither and back for the modest sum of 5_d._ The yards with
their well-filled pens on either side, presented a wild appearance.
Droves of cattle were being driven by men on horseback, galloping and
cracking their long whips, with the curious wooden stirrups and peaked
saddle of old Spanish Mexican make. We threaded our way through them to
Armour and Co.'s, one of the largest establishments, where daily many
thousands of pigs, sheep, and oxen are purchased, killed, cut up, cooked,
salted, and packed in the shortest possible space of time. We were
allowed to wander about the reeking, blood-stained floors, and thoroughly
sickened, and fearful that every turn would reveal more bloody horrors, I
stopped opposite a gory pile of horns being carted away, whilst C. went
to see the oxen killed. He described how they are driven in single file
through a narrow passage into separate pens, over the top of which runs
a broad plank, on which the "gentleman who does the shooting" stands
with a small rifle. The poor beast looks up a second after his admission
to the pen, and the rifle bullet fells him instantly stone dead. The
further door is opened, and the carcase dragged away by cords to the
cutting-up room. There could be no more merciful mode of killing without
any unnecessary brutality.
We were told that they stopped killing hogs at noon every day. These have
their throats cut (some say they are guillotined by machinery); and it is
possible that half an hour after the pig has been squealing in the pen,
it will be neatly packed in one of those enormous stacks of tins which we
passed on our way out.
We went for a stroll in the evening, and found the shop windows swarmed
over by a species of brown moth, with long bodies and gauzy wings, called
Canadian Soldiers. They come from the shores of the lake, and are quite
harmless, buzzing around the electric lights to their own destruction.
A clock, showing the various times of the different capitals in Europe,
carried us back in thoughts to London, which at that moment would be
sleeping like a city of the dead, dawn only beginning to break. There is
about six hours' difference in time, and yesterday we lost an hour in
going from the 30th meridian to the 46th.
_August 14th._--A very sultry morning; and to refresh us before starting
on our journey of two days and two nights in the cars, we had a charming
drive in Lincoln Park, along the shores of the lake. Broad gravelled
paths, bordered with trees, numberless flower-beds dotted about, and a
sheet of water, formed one of the prettiest parks imaginable. South Park,
leading from Michigan Avenue, is still finer; and altogether Chicago
possesses six of these beautiful parks, dedicated to the use of the
people. Returning home through the suburbs we passed the Waterworks. The
door was standing open, free to all comers, perhaps ready to inspire some
child's mind with a taste for machinery (how different to our ideas!),
and through it we saw the magnificent cylinders, revolving to the roof of
the building, and the tiny wheels and cogs all performing their appointed
motions. The water is supplied from "the crib" through a tunnel running
two miles under the bottom of the lake.
It was wonderful what a different impression we carried away of Chicago
after this drive. We should have liked now to have stayed another day
to have seen some "trotting races," and made an expedition to Pullman
City, the Utopian village erected by Mr. Pullman for his large colony
of workers, employed solely in the construction of his Palace Cars. The
clean, well-paved streets; the model houses, with improved ventilation
and sanitary methods; the fine gardens, and the complete absence of
poverty, renders the little village quite celebrated. We had a letter of
introduction to Mr. Pullman, through whose express permission alone the
works are viewed.
We left Chicago at noon, by the Chicago, Burlington, and Quincy route,
familiarly known as the "C. B. and Q." A dining car attached to the
train provided luncheon, and we travelled in a Pullman, with inlaid and
polished panels, plush curtains, velvet cushions, and looking-glasses.
The heat was terrible, and we gasped and panted through the long hours
of the afternoon, taking refuge at last on the platform outside the car,
sitting on camp-stools, heedless of dust and grit, and the deafening
roar, as the on-rushing cars thundered over the rails, willing to endure
any discomfort for the chance of a breath of air. In the evening, at
dusk, we crossed the mile-long bridge over the Missisippi, and looked
into the rolling volume of turbid waters. "Blackie" gave us a little
supper, neatly and cleanly served on a movable table, of blackberries,
bread and butter, cold tongue and eggs, iced tea and lemonade--so much
nicer than the hurried meal at the railway buffet. The car was turned
upside down, and beds made up at 9 p.m.
We found ourselves the next morning on the muddy banks of the Missouri,
the second of America's great rivers and unnavigable, owing to the large
sandbanks which form between the swift currents. Soon we passed Council
Bluffs, with Omaha, a large town on the broad plateau just opposite.
Yesterday we were journeying through the State of Illinois, during the
night through that of Iowa, and now, through Nebraska, Lincoln, the
capital of which we had just passed.
I believe every one, from the days of early childhood, from books of
voyages and travel, forms some vague idea of the prairies. We were
nearing them now, and I was longing for my first sight of that vast
deserted plain, "the blankness of desolation." The scene was growing
wilder and wilder; dreary, uninhabited expanses were succeeded by wooden
shanties, clustering round a small store with a few cultivated fields and
low-lying marshes; horses and cows were hobbled in the vicinity of the
village to prevent their straying away to the plains. The sunflower, a
smaller kind than ours, flourished luxuriously in large patches; but that
was the only evidence of nature, usually so prolific, here so grim and
stingy. The day was cold and gloomy, with frequent scuds of rain.
At length we seemed to leave all human habitations behind; and in the
majesty of loneliness we were crossing the desert, on a single track, in
the midst of the lone prairie lands.
Those beautiful rolling plains--millions of acres, covered with the
short, yellow buffalo grass--extend to the horizon in undulating lines,
a wide, uninhabited, lifeless, uplifted solitude. The blue of the sky
overhead and the dried-up grass are the only blending of colours.
Monotonous as they are, there is the greatest fascination about the
prairies. Involuntarily you cannot help looking for some sign of life,
some tree or green plant. Sometimes too, far-distant specks resolve
themselves into the cattle, roaming at will over the boundless plain.
Buffaloes there are to be seen now and again, but they are dying out
fast. The indigenous prairie dog alone remains. These curious little
animals are of a grayish-brown colour, always fat, with the long body
and bushy tail of a dog, and the head of a ferret. They scamper away
at the first sign of the train to their "villages," uttering a short,
yelping bark. Their mounds are burrowed as much as two or three yards
underground; and the rattlesnake and the burrowing owl are supposed
always to share the home.
In the evening we had a grand sight, when a storm swept with terrific
force over the prairie. A dense blackness enveloped the previously lurid
sky, against which the forked lightning played in jagged edges, and the
thunder pealed overhead, mingling with the rattling of the hailstones.
The engine ploughed along,--we were swallowed up in darkness and gloom,
till the sky lightened and gradually broke, and from a confused mass of
purple clouds the rays of the setting sun converged into a pale gold mist
on the distant hills.
When the storm cleared we found ourselves in the fertile little valley
of the Platte River, the narrow stream winding and circling among green
meadow-land, the banks fringed with waving grass and rushes; a scene of
quiet beauty.
That night we longed to see a prairie fire, but I suppose such good
fortune rarely happens to any traveller. It must be an awful but
marvellously grand scene. The heavens and the horizon are first seen like
a furnace, and then the long line of flame, banked up with dark smoke
clouds, comes sweeping on its resistless course. The wonderful thing is
how they are ever checked, but most of these prairie fires are said to
burn themselves out. And when they approach within two or three miles'
range of the settler's ranch a counter fire is started, which eats up all
before it, and, joining with the greater fire, leaves it nothing to feed
upon. The flames will often travel twenty miles an hour, and leap angrily
into the air to a height of fifteen feet. Sometimes they are started by
the careless dropping of a match, or some ashes shaken from a pipe, but
more often from the spark of a locomotive. It touches the grass, dry as
tinder, and the breeze fans into life the little flame destined so soon
to burn millions of acres. There is a very curious feature in connection
with these prairie fires. So long as they rage, nothing but tufted or
prairie-grass will grow; but so soon as they cease, trees, shrubs, and
bushes of all sorts spring up spontaneously--in fact it ceases to be
prairie. "It is an ill-wind which blows nobody good," for the next year
the grass comes darker and richer than ever, and strange as it seems,
this burnt-up grass is the finest feeding pasture in the world for cattle
and horses. With this unfulfilled wish we lay down to sleep peacefully.
At three in the morning, we were awoke with a dreadful shock, under which
the car shivered and upheaved. We heard the crash of falling china, and
seemed to feel the furious application of the air brakes, which brought
us to a dead stop.
In the awful stillness that succeeded, the conductor rushed through the
cars and begged us to "keep still." Every head was protruded from between
the curtains, and there were frightened exclamations to be heard from all
sides. The suspense that ensued was terrible.
Too soon the truth came. There was our engine smashed to pieces off
the line, the tender high in the air, telescoping the luggage van.
Ten feet off was another engine of another passenger train. It was
eastward-bound, and therefore on the main track, waiting for us,
the westward train, to pass on to the siding. The signal, a covered
head-light, had gone out; the fireman moving to replace it, accidentally
waved a lighted lantern, which the driver of our train took as a signal
that the east-bound train had gone into the siding instead, and, at
the rate of twenty-five miles an hour, we continued running into the
stationary passenger-train! The drivers and firemen of both engines
saved themselves by jumping off, and we all had a providential escape
from what might have proved a terrible accident. We were forty miles
from a village, and eighty from a town and any surgical aid. A messenger
was sent to walk to the nearest telegraph station, six miles away, and
nothing remained to us but to wait. We looked out on the silent prairie,
the stars solemnly keeping watch in the deep blue vault of heaven,
thinking of the strange situation, till dawn broke and the sun rose. Then
we could penetrate to the scene of the disaster. There was much _débris_
scattered about the track, and the broken engines lay on the ground
facing each other. The corpses of some murdered fowls were inside the
luggage van, and, suspended in mid-air, I saw at once my new saratoga,
a last American acquisition. The remainder of the baggage was more or
less injured, and two trunks were completely wrecked, and their contents
strewn on the ground. We were resigned, and prepared to spend the day
on the prairie, when, sooner than we thought possible by the earliest
calculation, two relief engines arrived, and drew off each train. The
eastward-bound was first sent on its way rejoicing, and we followed.
The black porter had been very much to the fore about seven o'clock,
providing breakfast for all, as those bringing provisions had calculated
on arriving at Denver in the early morning. "Guess I'se best man on the
car this morning," he said, with a grin, showing his white teeth. For
the remainder of the journey we suffered dreadfully from the heat, and
the sand penetrated into every crevice and corner. How we strained our
aching eyes over that burnt, parched plain, in search of the vestige
of a shadow, or _any_ green thing to give relief! At last we did see
something, a mirage it almost seemed for the first moment, of dark blue
mountains, with dazzling crowns of snow. They were the glorious range of
"the Rockies" bounding the horizon, and Denver lay at their feet.
As we got out on the platform it seemed almost as if the atmosphere
inside the car were preferable to that outside, so sultry and oppressive
as it was; the heated pavement burnt the soles of our feet, and the trees
near the station were drooping and white with dust. However, we took
a more cheerful view after we had changed our dusty garments and been
refreshed with a bath--thought it, in fact, almost worth while having
felt so hot and weary, to be now so bright and fresh, and ready for a
drive in the cool of the evening. As we passed through those quiet,
orderly streets, it was very difficult to realize that Denver sprang
into existence with the discovery of the gold diggings, and twenty years
ago was peopled entirely by the lawless roughs brought thither by the
gold fever. They are being gradually superseded by a quiet, industrious
population, centring here from the country districts. Though often
even now you look into the face of many a man following some menial
occupation, who shows traces of not being "to the manner born," but who,
in the search for sudden wealth at the diggings, has left the little he
had below ground, and thankfully turned to any kind of work to earn a
bare livelihood.
We passed a fine house, with the proprietor sitting in the garden, our
driver pointed to him, "That 'ere man this time last year was a beggar,
to-day he is one of the richest men in Denver." In five weeks he had
made one million and a half of dollars at the diggings. The man spoke
bitterly, and we more than suspected he too had had his turn of ill luck
at them; and the like story might be told of most of its inhabitants.
There are a few streets, and the remainder of the town consists of pretty
little villas and cottages, each standing in a garden, kept fresh and
green by the unlimited use of water. They have an ingenious contrivance
for watering, consisting of a pipe attached to the hose, with a top
perforated with holes, that turning with the action of the water scatters
forth a shower of spray, and is left always playing upon the grass. Life
is carried on to a great extent out of doors, people working, meeting and
receiving guests in the verandahs. The houses are kept dark and cool by
shutters, and the fine wire doors are an absolutely necessary precaution
against the plague of flies.
Denver has not yet reached that stage in its development when it can have
any public buildings of interest, but they are moving in that direction,
as is shown by the fine City Hall they are just finishing erecting on the
hill.
We had the disagreeable business to be gone through of going down to the
station late in the evening, to receive the wreck of our luggage brought
on from the scene of the morning's accident by the next passenger train.
My Saratoga was levered down with some difficulty, and, with great care
exercised in the removal, happily lasted till it reached the hotel. C.'s
hat-box and its contents were reduced to an unrecognizable mass, and the
remainder of the baggage was more or less torn, and with locks broken.
I must say we thought the company behaved exceedingly well, as without
demur they gave us damages to the amount of 35 dollars; but we afterwards
learnt the reason, which was that if further injuries were discovered no
further compensation could be claimed.
_Sunday, August 17th, Denver, Colorado._--We went to the morning service
at the cathedral. It is a plain, brick building, at present cold and
bare inside, but it is intended to decorate it richly when the necessary
funds are forthcoming. The stained glass windows in the chancel are
really beautiful, copied from Vandyke's "Crucifixion" at Antwerp; the
organ is fine, and the singing of the well-trained choir of men and women
(the latter sitting behind a screen), quite worthy of it. We had a very
eloquent and sarcastic sermon from Dean Hart, an Englishman; he chose as
his text, "Balaam, the son of Beor."
Under the very shadow of "the Rockies," in the far West, how strange it
was to be listening to a full cathedral service; and the prayers of the
Church of England binding together both American and English!
The air was very sultry, with frequent storms in the afternoon. We went
by the circular railway to Jewell Park and enjoyed the beautiful sight of
the Rocky Mountains, swept with dark storms or momentarily emerging under
a brightly shining sun.
_Monday, August 18th._--We left Denver at 8 a.m., and our way lay for
many miles along the foot of the Rockies. Though twenty miles away, the
rarefied atmosphere of 5000 feet above the level of the sea brought
them apparently to within two or three miles of us. And now we could
understand their name of "Rockies," for boulders of rock and loose
stones, with the long scars where they have given way under the influence
of the snow, form their prominent characteristics. There were some little
patches of snow yet unmelted and nestling in the deep crevasses.
Buffalo grass was still to be seen on all sides, and the fat, brown
prairie dogs kept popping in and out of their holes, and, for the first
time, too, we noticed the cacti that grow in such wild profusion on
the prairie. We were imperceptibly mounting the Great Divide, and as
we reached the small lake at the summit, the country grew fresher and
greener, and the broad grass expanse, with groups of trees, gave to it
the appearance of a vast park. The remainder of the way lay through
cultivated fields, the great barrier of mountains on one side always
leaving to the imagination the pleasure of the great unknown beyond. We
were soon at Colorado Springs.
Here there was no sign of a village; we could only see the large hotel,
"The Antlers," through the over-arching trees of a long avenue. In the
afternoon we took a buggy and drove over to Manitou. The clear, dry
climate of this high altitude, draws many invalids to Manitou, and
there are several large hotels clustering in the neighbourhood of the
springs of soda, iron, and sulphur; also numerous boarding-houses, where
we observed many little white tents pitched in their neighbourhood, to
allow for an over-flow of boarders. One was very aptly called, "The Rocky
Rest," and was "to Rent."
Manitou lies under the shadow of the great Range. The rocks seem ready to
fall and crush the little village, and the pine forests cast their gloom
into the valley. From the many surrounding peaks, Pike's Peak raises its
giant head towering above the others, and the little black speck just
distinguishable on the summit if the clouds are not down, is the signal
station, whence three times daily weather reports are telegraphed to all
parts of the States, and the storms forwarded across the Atlantic to us.
The picturesque ascent of ten miles on mules is soon to be no more, for a
syndicate of four speculators are making a railway, taking a circuitous
route of thirty miles to the top, and already the dark line of earth and
the rows of telegraph poles tell of its progress.
We drove on, up the Ute Pass to the Rainbow Falls, but there were,
unfortunately, no iridescent beams from the sun that afternoon. If we
could have gone on climbing that beautiful cañon (pronounced canyon)
for 120 miles, we should have come suddenly upon one of those vast
open spaces or "parks" that form Colorado's greatest beauty. They
are comparatively unknown at present, owing to the want of railway
communication.
We had tea with Dr. and Mrs. Bell, who have built themselves a charming
house in Manitou; they live there all the year round, and say the winters
are comparatively mild.
We stayed so long that it was late before we drove on to the "Garden of
the Gods," but I was glad, for nothing could have been more beautiful
than the evening shadows creeping up the mountains, the blue gloom of
the pines, and before us a park with stunted oaks and masses of light
red sandstone. They are curled, twisted, writhing masses, strewn in
wild confusion on the ground, forming the most incongruous series of
objects. There was the old Scotchman in his Highland bonnet, two sheep
kissing each other, their idiotic noses distinctly seen in the act of
touching, the Newfoundland dog, the old man's cellar, the semicircle
of mushrooms, very perfect in form, and the magnificent outline of the
lion cut out on the face of the rock. You irresistibly give play to the
imagination--people this little kingdom with fairy fancies entering at
the Gate Beautiful.
A storm has swept down from the mountains, bringing a dark mist peopled
by the demons, dwelling in its hidden caverns. Whilst the storm rages
and the thunder crashes through the echoing mountains, and the lightning
flashes on the rugged peaks, the works of darkness are done, the
destruction wrought--the Garden of the Gods is so no longer. The name is
ironical. Some such dim idea floated through our minds, I suppose, as the
three glorious piles of the brightest red sandstone, rose before us 300
feet in height, forming the entrance called the Gate Beautiful; and the
cathedral is near by with delicate spires pointed heavenwards. Monuments,
they stand to last throughout eternity; and as we passed through the
portals and left the land of enchantment, what a dull, cold feeling
gathered round us! The warmth of the red glow inside was superseded by
gloom added to by that formation of cold white rock outside. Though it
was growing dark, we ventured up the weird gorge to Glen Eyrie, with
General Palmer's residence guarded by the three pillars, the one called
major domo being in the centre. We spied an eagle's nest built into a
split in the rock.
Then home we galloped across the plains, the horses hardly touching the
ground, darkness creeping over the prairie, clouds on Pike's Peak, and
Manitou in gloom.
After dinner we went out to see the stars, which are so beautiful in this
clear atmosphere, with the Milky Way, a trailing cloud across the sky.
_Tuesday, August 16th. In the train going to Salt Lake City._--We have
been spending the day in the Rocky Mountains, amongst some of the most
beautiful scenery in the world, awed and struck by the grandeur of the
scenes we have passed through.
We began in the early freshness of the morning with a drive up the
Cheyenne Pass, a wild gorge, penetrating for some miles into the heart
of the mountains. We passed first through prairie fields, where pink
anemones, wild larkspur, bluebells, sunflowers, large white poppies,
cornflowers, and a delicate pink flower, called here a primrose, grew in
wild luxuriance, over a very roughly-laid road, where only a carriage of
such light build as ours was could have been driven. The bridges over the
many freshets were made of the stems of pine-trees loosely laid together,
and as often as the horses stepped on one end the other rose up.
It was a scene of the wildest beauty as we penetrated ever deeper into
the contracting gorge. One of the great charms of this range is the rich
colour of their red sandstone masses, blackened and weather-stained in
parts by the action of centuries. We were surrounded, hemmed in, overhung
by those stupendous fragments, and masses of rocks leaning towards
each other, and leaving only a narrow streak of sky as a relief to the
surrounding gloom, which was heightened by the dark pines that clung and
found a footing on every narrow ledge. When we reached the end of the
cañon which by this time was so deep and dark as to form only a chasm
amongst the rocks, we were fairly spell-bound, breathless almost from the
astounding magnificence of the scene before us. Seven waterfalls falling
down the face of the black cliff, seven clouds of spray falling one under
each other, each into its dark pool below. We climbed up a frail, wooden
staircase, hung out from ledges in the rocks, looking into every little
hollow, following the fall of the water over each, till we traced it to
its source, where it first comes gliding over from the quiet, green pool
lying hid in a rocky basin above. This pool takes the reflection of the
dark pines on its calm depths.
We lingered, and tried to go--turned back, and at last left it, with a
gnawing pang of regret. We shall not soon forget that quiet spot away
from the haunts of man. We passed into the darkness of the chasm below,
retraced our steps, and were soon out in the open, under the bright
sunshine once more; and, before an hour was over, were speeding many
miles away in the train.
We found the train leaving Colorado Springs very crowded, adding to the
discomfort of the narrow gauge, with a proportionally narrowed car.
We kept the backbone of "the Rockies" in sight for a long way, now and
then drawing near to one of the outlying spurs. We dined at Pueblo, a
town standing on a bluff of bare rock destitute of vegetation; and its
Spanish origin is still evidenced by the fine breed of mules, brought
from their colonies in Mexico. We saw here the arrival of the "Pony
Express," with the leather mail-bags slung across the peak of the saddle,
to be carried on by the train; but its arrival now is very different to
that described by Mark Twain in his reminiscences in "Roughing It:"--
"In a little while all interest was taken up in stretching our necks
and watching for the 'pony rider'--the fleet messenger who sped across
the continent from St. Joe to Sacramento, carrying letters 1900 miles
in eight days. He got but little frivolous correspondence to carry--his
bag had business letters in it, mostly. The little flat mail-pockets,
strapped under the rider's thighs, would each hold about the bulk of a
child's primer. They held many and many an important business chapter
and newspaper letter, but these were written on paper as airy and thin
as gold-leaf. There were about eighty pony-riders in the saddle all the
time, night and day, stretching in a long, scattered precession from
Missouri to California, forty flying eastward, and forty towards the
west, and among them making 400 gallant horses earn a stirring livelihood.
"'Here he comes!'
"Every neck is stretched further, and every eye strained wider. Away
across the endless dead level of the prairie a black speck appears
against the sky, and it is plain that it moves. In a second or
two it becomes a horse and rider, rising and falling, rising and
falling--sweeping towards us nearer and nearer--growing more and more
distinct, more and more sharply defined, nearer and still nearer, and
the flutter of the hoofs comes faintly to the ear. Another instant a
whoop and a hurrah from our upper deck, a wave of the rider's hand, but
no reply, and man and horse burst past our excited faces, and go winging
away like a belated fragment of a storm!
"So sudden is it all, and so like a flash of unreal fancy, that but for
a flake of white foam left quivering and perishing on a mail-sack after
the vision had passed by and disappeared, we might have doubted whether
we had seen any actual horse and man at all."
At 3 p.m. we were entering the great cañon of the Arkansas. The Royal
Gorge must have been formed by some great convulsion in nature, rending
the mountains from the top to the bottom, and leaving this deep chasm.
The muddy mountain torrent has burrowed a channel through for itself,
where it lashes and foams into fury against the obstructing rocks. It was
an ingenious idea, making the line on ground literally blasted out of the
rock or bridged over the torrent, while the precipices overhanging it
meet above. No green thing grows on their polished sides; but there was
a beautiful blending of colours in the red and blue and green veins of
the rocks. We were in the deepest shadow, from the depth of the gorge.
The train crept along only too quickly, and we were trying to enjoy to
our utmost the stupendous grandeur of the scene by hanging out of the
windows of the car, when we gradually became aware that it was fading.
And though for some time longer we were going through a succession of
mountain passes, which opened out before us, were passed, and looked back
upon, they paled by comparison with the Royal Gorge.
Late in the afternoon we were crossing an open plain, and, separated by
countless nearer summits, we saw the irregular snow-capped peaks of the
Sangre de Christo, I am not sure that I did not think this irregular,
indefinite view of green, far-stretching plains and blue haze on distant
mountains more beautiful than the solemn grandeur of the Royal Gorge.
[Illustration: The Royal Gorge of the Arkansas.
Page 58.]
At the small station of Salida three engines were waiting for us, and the
train was broken into two, the baggage cars and one engine preceding us.
We watched with the greatest interest for the beginning of the ascent of
fourteen miles up the Marshall Pass, for the crossing of the Rockies, the
"Great Divide," as they are called, separating as they do the Atlantic
and Pacific continents. There was a grade of 217 feet to the mile, and
the engines puffed and panted, emitting alternately their black columns
of smoke, taking it in turns to pull us up the steep inclines---so
steep they were that everything in the cars slipped downwards, and
the conductor passing through appeared to be walking up-hill. Looking
upwards, the dark line of earth winding round the mountains showed us our
onward track, and we looked, almost incredulous of ever reaching there,
till sweeping round another curve, the length of the train often doubling
itself, we were brought on a level with it. But the most dangerous thing
appeared to us the crossing of the wide gullies in passing from one
mountain to another, the train describing one of its deep curves on a
frail wooden trestle-bridge, before continuing in the upward track.
We were climbing higher and higher, already above a lower range of
mountains, and soon touching the snow-line. One minute we were in the
dark tunnel of the numerous snow sheds, and the next in full view of what
is perhaps the most glorious, the most awe-inspiring scene, in its gaunt
loneliness and majesty, that we shall ever see in all our lives. A sea of
peaks around, and before, and behind, as far as the eye can reach; the
cold grey of the wan gloom, tinged with a rosy light, lingering yet long
after the sun had gone down; a scene of the greatest desolation, for fire
had swept the pine forests not long ago, destroying all vegetation, and
the blackened and charred stumps marked but too surely its devastating
path. We shivered involuntarily as we stopped for a short time at the
very summit, partly from the chilly dampness of the atmosphere, but as
much from a feeling of sheer loneliness and dread. We should have liked
to have been alone in the car,--left to ourselves for a few minutes, to
"realize" that majestic scene, and imprint it indelibly on the memory.
The engine shrieked, and we were carried away into gloom, losing all the
beauty of the descent in the gathering darkness,--to supper at a wayside
shanty by the uncertain light of guttering oil-lamps.
It seemed wonderful, as we lay down in our berths in the car that night,
to think that we had gone up the Rockies and come down on the other side
in an ordinary passenger train. Very different it must have been in the
old coaching days, when they toiled along the road, which we had traced
in a dim, white line in the far distance.
It was most annoying going through the Black Cañon of the Gunnison at
night; but I was fortunate enough to wake up at midnight, just as we were
passing through it, and, looking out, I could see the ghostly shadows
cast by the head-light of the engine in the deep chasm, and could trace
the outline of its chief beauty, the straight and slender needle point of
the Currecanti.
_Wednesday, August 20th. At Grand Junction Station._--We awoke at seven
in the morning, to find the car at a standstill, and also to hear that
it had been so since 3 a.m. There had been a "wash out" at Green River,
some 150 miles up the line. We soon found out what this expressive term
signifies; it means an indefinite waiting for an indefinite number of
hours--indefinite, I say, because it entirely depends on the subsidence
of the freshet and the reparation of a bridge. We learnt afterwards that
the Denver and Rio Grande line is particularly subject to these little
mishaps, and we noticed that the officials thought nothing at all of
the occurrence. The same thing had happened to some ladies now in the
train when going over the line two months previously. Adding insult to
injury, we were turned out of our Pullman, where we might have spent the
day comfortably enough, and the train returned eastwards, leaving the
passengers and their luggage a forlorn group on the platform of the Grand
Junction.
We found breakfast at a wooden shanty near the station, and fared better
than those who tried the hotel. The scene that lay before us was this. On
one side there was a collection of wooden huts forming the village, with
the grandiloquent name of Grand Junction, bought two years ago from the
Indians by the Government. It stands in a sandy desert, with a plentiful
sprinkling of alkali, bounded by a low chain of granite rocks; on the
other was a marshy ground leading to the river. C. bought some tackle in
the village, with a wild idea of fishing, but we found the hot sun on the
swampy banks was so unhealthy that we beat a hasty retreat. In writing
up my journal and reading, the morning passed, and we again repaired to
the shanty for luncheon. In the course of the afternoon we strolled into
the town, and laid in a store of biscuits against further accidents, and
ran back to the shelter of the station before a coming storm. The heavens
opened, and a water-spout came down in the distance, like a pillar of
cloud, seeming to draw the earth up to it, and gusts of wind blew up the
dust into clouds, sweeping over the little village like a real simoon of
the desert.
There was no one in authority to give us any information, and the most
intelligent individual about the station seemed to be the telegraph
clerk, who had only arrived the previous day from Chicago. He had just
made out from a telegram, as he thought, that we were to wait till seven
o'clock for a train, when we saw one coming into sight. I don't think any
one inquired where it was going, or whether it was the right one, but
we all jumped in, and sped joyfully across the dreary plain. We saw a
beautiful _double_ rainbow, the most vivid and perfect arcs I have ever
seen, just meeting each other where they touched the earth.
We had not been expected at Green River, and there was not much supper
forthcoming; but we did not care, as we had, in fear and trembling,
previously passed in safety over _the_ bridge.
The conductor, putting his head between the curtains at seven the next
morning with the announcement of "breakfast in ten minutes," awoke us,
and we looked out upon the beautiful valley of Utah, girdled with the
mountains, and abounding in rich farms and orchards, watered by several
pure streams of water. Nature seems to have smiled upon this sunny
spot; and here the "Mormons," wanderers on the face of the earth for
so long, chose a resting-place, and built their City by the Salt Lake.
The great range of the Wahsatch Mountains opens out here, and forms a
convenient site for a city at their feet; and as we approached we saw
that distinctive feature, the dome of the Tabernacle.
The streets of Salt Lake City are wide, too wide for the traffic, for
on either side they are overgrown thickly with weeds, forming in some
streets into grass borders. The houses are low and pretty, covered with
creepers, and the gardens luxuriate with bright flowers, that thrive
naturally in these sheltered spots. Swiftly-running water in the gutters
answers the double purpose of irrigation and drainage.
We naturally first wended our way to the Tabernacle. It is the dreariest
of whitewashed buildings inside. The rounded dome of the roof is
unsupported by any pillars, and faded evergreen wreaths and tawdry flags
are suspended from the centre, erected for Commemoration Day, some
fifteen years ago, and never since taken down. The organ ranks as the
third largest in the States. In the little wooden boxes, ranged in tiers
on the platform in a gradually descending scale, sit the President, the
Elders, and the Bishops. From here they call upon Brother So-and-So
to address the congregation. There is a most wonderful echo in the
Tabernacle; we distinctly heard a pin dropped at the further end to where
we were standing. The marble Temple, which is being built to replace the
old place of worship, has already cost 750,000_l._, but judging from
the few workmen in the sheds, we thought the funds had perhaps come to
an end. We went next to Zion's Co-operative Store; it is a fine stone
building, with the text "Holiness to the Lord" blazoned on a sign over
the door, and inside you might fancy yourself in the Army and Navy
Co-operative Stores--the same division of departments, including the lift
to each floor. An "elder" showed us through; and all those employed in
the buildings are Mormons. True believers are exhorted to deal solely at
the store.
There is a theatre, and the Walker Opera House; for they maintain,
and quite rightly, that, "As all people have a fondness for dramatic
representations, it is well to so regulate and govern such exhibitions,
that they may be instructive and purifying in their tendencies. If the
best people absent themselves, the worst will dictate the character of
the exercises."
Behind a high stone wall are the two houses that belonged to Brigham
Young, called the Bee and the Lion Houses, from the carved designs over
the doors; in the latter Brigham Young died. Exactly opposite is the
large stone house--the finest in the territory (Utah is not a state but
a territory)--which he built for his last and seventeenth wife and which
is now occupied by his successor, President Taylor. Asking to be shown
Brigham Young's grave, we were taken to a plot of grass, roughly walled
in, and in the centre was the grave, of loosely piled stones, marked
with a wooden cross. He was buried here, and not in the cemetery, as a
distinguishing mark of respect; but if so, his resting-place might, we
thought, have been better cared for. Many of the Mormon residences may be
recognized by their green gates and several entrances, for the separate
use of the different wives and families. At present the population of
Salt Lake City is 14,000, of which about 10,000 are Mormons, but the
mines in the Wahsatch range are bringing a great influx of Gentiles. The
Government have made many ineffectual attempts to convict the Mormons of
polygamy, but the prosecutions always languish for want of evidence, as
they are faithful to the tenets of their religion. Not even the unhappy
wives superseded, and often tormented by the last favourite, can be
brought to give evidence.
Many are followers of the religion of the "Latter Day Saints" without
necessarily becoming polygamists. We invested in some Mormon literature;
a pamphlet "On the Bible and Polygamy; a Discussion between Elder Orson
Pratt, one of the Twelve Apostles of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter
Day Saints, and the Rev. Dr. Newman, Chaplain of the United States'
Senate," in which it must be confessed, the former seemed to have rather
the best of the argument; also a Mormon Bible, which is divided into the
four books of Nephi, and ten others. The Bible seems to have been taken
as the foundation for many chapters, and worked into the tenets of the
Mormon faith, forms a curious medley. In the Catechism, which we also
got, we found that the question and answer was generally authenticated by
a text, quoted from the Scriptures and the Mormon Bible, and placed side
by side. This catechism consists of eighteen chapters, and seems more
to be a full exposition of faith than for the instruction of children.
I give a few extracts from the last chapter, which I think may be
interesting:--
"1. _Q._ Has God given any particular revelation in these last days for
the preservation of their lives and health to His people?
"_A._ Yes. He gave a revelation to Joseph Smith on this subject.
"2. _Q._ What is this revelation called?
"_A._ A Word of Wisdom.
"7. _Q._ What does the first paragraph or verse of this Word of Wisdom
teach us?
"_A._ That it is not good to drink wine or strong drinks, excepting in
the sacrament of the Lord's Supper, and then it should be home-made grape
wine; that it is not good to drink hot drinks, or chew or smoke tobacco;
that strong drinks are for the washing of the body, and that tobacco is
an herb for bruises and sick cattle.
"8. _Q._ What does the second paragraph teach us?
"_A._ That herbs and fruits are for the food of man; that grain is for
the food of man, and beasts, and fowls; and that flesh is not to be eaten
by man, excepting in times of winter, cold, and famine.
"11. _Q._ Why is it not good to drink wine or strong drinks?
"_A._ Because they excite men unnaturally, inflame their stomachs,
vitiate their appetites, and disorder their whole systems.
"13. _Q._ Why is it not good to smoke or chew tobacco?
"_A._ Because those habits are very filthy, and tobacco is of a poisonous
nature, and the use of it debases men.
"14. _Q._ Why should flesh be eaten by man in winter, and in times of
famine, and not at other times?
"_A._ Flesh is heating to the human system, therefore it is not good to
eat flesh in summer; but God allows His people to eat it in winter, and
in times of famine, because all animals suffer death naturally, if they
do not by the hand of man."
We left Salt Lake City in the afternoon, and skirted along the shores in
the train of the Great Salt Lake--the Dead Sea of America. Two feet of
pure salt lie encrusted round its shores; the water contains 20 per cent.
of it, and the evaporation of four barrels of water leaves one of salt.
The atmosphere is always bluish and hazy from the effects of this active
evaporation. No fish or fowl can live in the lake, and it is impossible
to drown, so great is the buoyancy of the water, though death can easily
be caused by strangulation.
We arrived at Ogden at three o'clock, the junction where a connection
with the Central Pacific Railway is made. And here there ensued a very
weary waiting of four hours for another Denver and Rio Grande train. When
it did arrive we made up a train of twelve cars, with the arrears of
passengers and baggage from the late "wash out."
In the year 1844 when Fremont made his first exploration across the vast
prairies, there was not a single line of railway west of the Alleghanies.
The discovery of gold in California drew attention to the enormous wealth
lying to the Far West, and Congress made a grant for an exploration,
which resulted in the commencement of the Central Pacific line, this
great junction between the Atlantic and Pacific oceans. On the 10th of
May, 1869, the lines from the east and west met in the middle of the
prairie, and the last tie, a silver one, was laid in commemoration of the
event.
All through that night we were passing through the great American Desert
of 600 square miles, once the bed of a vast saline lake. The next morning
there was still nothing to be seen but mud-dried plains with here and
there a little sage brush, the ground being cracked and parched under the
burning sun. In some parts there were fields of white alkali, making the
lips salt and the eyes smart painfully.
I verily believe nothing could surpass the terrific, fiery heat of that
day in the cars; we could not read or talk, but sat with parched lips,
panting, the sand floating into the car in a white cloud that soon made
us and all around invisible. One poor old woman in the next car nearly
died; they fanned her all day, whilst she wailed piteously for one breath
of air.
At some of the stations we passed there were groups of the Piute Indians,
clothed in striped blankets with bead necklaces, and one mother brought
her "papoose" (baby), slung on to her back in a long basket, that had
the characteristic features of the race--the pear-shaped eyes and the
drawn-down corners of the mouth--ridiculously strongly marked in its wee,
brown face. The mother begged for "two bits for the wee papoose."
We had luncheon in the middle of the day at Humboldt, a few green trees
about the station forming a very oasis in the desert; the exertion of
getting out made us, if possible, a little hotter. We thought then of
the awful sufferings endured by the early emigrants, as they toiled day
after day over these alkali plains. Along earlier stages of the line the
"Old Emigrant Trail" can frequently be seen, with here and there a rude
wooden cross marking the lonely grave of some emigrant or freighter, who,
overcome by sickness and weariness, lay down and died.
We lived through the long hours of that day as best we could, and about
seven o'clock we thought it was perhaps _just_ a little cooler, and the
glare of the sun not _quite_ so angry. We tried to ventilate the cars by
opening all the windows, and standing outside on the platforms before
turning in for the night. It was wonderful how mutual sufferings had
brought the passengers together, and how friendly we had all become. One
charming American lady, the wife of a clergyman, brought us each a most
refreshing cup of "real English tea."
After such a trying day it was particularly aggravating to be entering
the magnificent scenery of the Sierra Nevadas, and to be crossing them,
during the night.
We were in the beautiful valley of the Sacramento the next morning, among
its corn-fields, vineyards, and orchards, catching already glimpses of
the blue waters of the Bay of San Francisco, running far inland. We
crossed the Carthagena Straits on one of those wonderful steam ferries
that are capable of carrying four loaded trains. The train was slowed,
run on, and before we knew anything had happened, we were halfway
across, and able to get down from the car, and going to the side of the
ferry, look down into the muddy waters. The platforms at either end are
hydraulically raised or lowered, according to the state of the tide,
to the level of the ferry. For many miles we continued skirting the
bay, partly crossing it on trestle bridges till we reached Oakland, so
called from its beautiful groves of oaks; and which, though separated
from San Francisco by the bay, is one of its suburbs. We crossed over
from Oakland Ferry, and were at San Francisco, our journey to the Far
West--across the continent of America, 4000 miles from ocean to ocean,
traversing the ten states of Pennsylvania, Ohio, Indiana, Illinois, Iowa,
Nebraska, Colorado, the territory of Utah Nevada, into California--safely
accomplished.